


Miss Jones and I

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Crossdressing, Elaborate Party Warning, Espionage, Fluff, Have You Met Miss Jones?, Inspired, M/M, RusAme, This series should be a warning in and of itself, it's fluff, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 08:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16281380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: Alfred was used to spying in galas and parties all across the world.  He loved the swish of skirts around his legs and the thrum of the beat the musicians would play, even as the company around him often bored him to death.  And for all that he was aware he wasn't the only nation who snuck into balls all over the world, it was still a surprise the first time he actually ran into one.It just had to be Ivan, didn't it?[Set in the UK, first chapter is the fic. Omake in Chapter 2 to come!]





	Miss Jones and I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the responsibility of the FLUFF MONSTER who sent me this song to listen to this afternoon, spent hours talking with me, and by early evening THERE BE A FIC. Shows you what inspiration can really do, huh? It's absolutely crazy, fluffy, and funny, and I absolutely hope you enjoy it!!!
> 
> (pssst...you especially fluff monster. with all the sneak peeks I gave you)

            “You’re looking quite lovely this evening, dear,” a voice too his right complimented easily, and he turned.  Rose-painted lips curved into a delicate, devious smile with just a hint of pearly white teeth peering out, and his ambassador smirked. “None of them would ever guess.”

            “A compliment coming from you, Madame,” he murmured softly, not that he was surprised.  He’d been acting as the UK ambassador’s aide all week as she’d taken the initiative to get him all dressed up to attend the ball.  It was easy enough to have a young woman the ambassador knew personally added to the Embassy’s attaché, especially one who’d come with recommendation from the _White House_.

            Not that Nixon would’ve _ever_ approved of _this_.

            The ambassador eyed him up and down, eyes scanning swathes of navy fabrics and golden gems woven through his ensemble. The gleam of gold against his neck and his wrists shone warmly in the darkly-lit ballroom.  “A well-deserved one,” she noted casually, before waving him away.

            Just well enough, he thought, scurrying away as quickly as he could without seeming to do so.  He may have arrived with the ambassador’s attaché, but for the duration of the party, he was not operating as a part of it.

            No, the CIA had more of an interest in the ball itself than the ambassador’s retinue.  And who better to send than the one being with more experience with balls and galas than anyone in the country alive?  It was the perfect opportunity, especially when word reached them that Arthur Kirkland – the only one with any chance of busting their operation by recognizing the blond cross-dresser – would be occupied elsewhere the night of the event.

            So many foreign agents, dignitaries and spies all in the same room – it was like Trick or Treating dodging poisoned candies from every angle.

            “Time to be social, then,” he muttered to himself, before plastering on a smile just shy of wicked and sweeping onto the ballroom floor.

            Alcohol would loosen the tongue and dancing would keep them out and wagging.  Time to get to work.

* * *

           Conversation went swimmingly, and Alfred had to thank every deity he knew that one of the men he’d run into, a Mr. Burgess, at least wasn’t at all the typical British male with all the attitude involved.  It was always fun spying at galas abroad when there weren’t other nations present – the opportunity to be Miss Jones/Hamilton/Wren/Cassidy (amongst numberless other names he’s used) felt like a weight had been removed from already burdened shoulder – but even so, it was just a little more of a chore when the people were so uptight.

            But Mr. Burgess – _George, please Miss, I couldn’t bear having such a lovely lady calling me Mr. Burgess like the old Sisters from day school_ – was good humored.  Too good humored for him to believe he actually worked with Arthur at all, if he hadn’t seen the two in the office together before.  Polite, too, and genuine with it from the way he’d watched some of the other men at the party with a frown twisting on his lips when they got a little too drunkenly aggressive with women.  Ready to intervene should things get out of hand.

            And his _smile_ – warm and charming and just delightful!  He’d make someone a very happy person one day.

            Not that Alfred could really judge, though.  He did have a soft spot in his heart for a loving, vicious, possessive and more-than-a-little devious bastard (but secretly a giant fluff ball), after all.

            Speaking of that smile, George had just lit up like the dawn, a hand raising to gesture in beckoning, “Mr. Carmichael!  Oh, it’s so lovely to see you again, old chap!”  And he was _beaming_ , truly.  Alfred had long thought that anyone in the SIS’s covert ops had long since forgotten _that_ simple pleasure.  “Oh my, I doubt you two have met before – let me introduce you! Mr. Carmichael, have you met my friend, Miss Jones?”

            Alfred slid to the side, the swish of sapphire skirts brushing against his ear as he turned to make room for the third person.  He let the smile come to his lips as he caught sight of Mr. Carmichael moving around his skirts with a practiced fluidity – likely accustomed to maneuvering around women’s voluminous ball gowns. Genuine smile on his face, he twisted around, offering his golden glove up to the silver-gloved hand that reached to grab it.  They locked eyes in practically the same moment.

            He recognized violet eyes just as they recognized him.

            He watched the flash of surprise – _genuine_ surprise, he realized – dart through vivid violets that once featured equal parts in his dreams and nightmares.  The grip on his hand tightened just enough for him to really _feel_ it, before it returned to its polite society pressure.  Eyes still locked, a heart stopping smirk appeared on the face of _Mr. Carmichael_ as he bent down to press a kiss – _searing with warmth, imprinting onto his skin like it had a thousand times before –_ to the back of his hand.

            “Miss Jones, was it?” _Mr. Carmichael_ inquired, as if he didn’t know exactly who was standing in front of him, “Quite the pleasure.”

            He could _feel_ the flush rising, even as he smiled beatifically like the actor he was, “Likewise, of course,” he returned, letting the twist of a flirty smile tug at his lips.

            “I’m afraid we’ve never met before,” his violet-eyed rival murmured quietly, eyes sliding at the beaming George Burgess, “Rather odd given the old crowd who attend events like these tend to be well acquainted. Mr. Burgess, if you wouldn’t mind introducing us?”

            “Yes, yes, of course!” George exclaimed, his cheery smile as warm as always and just as unsurprising as the gleam of speculation in his eyes as he took in their reactions to each other.  “Well, my good man, dear Miss Jones is here with the US Embassy’s attaché.  She’s familiar with London since her father and his family are from here, so she works in outreach and public communication.  Particularly with US ex-pats who live in the area.”

            “Outreach?” the other echoed, a pale brow hitching up in intrigue, “How interactive.  You must be quite the social butterfly.”

            Alfred laughed, a light chiming thing of bells and summer sweetness, “However could you tell?” he said, tilting his head up to meet that powerful gaze with a sunny grin.

            “It seems you’ve got the lovely disposition for it,” Ivan murmured, eyes sharp but edged with warmth.  “I’m afraid I couldn’t compare.”

            “Surely not,” Alfred denied, a frown verging on a pout curling on his lips, “You seem very _capable_ , Mr. Carmichael.”

            The leer he was given lingered in Ivan’s eyes and nowhere else, only the curl of interest in his posture giving away any of the tension running between them.  “I am indeed quite capable.  It only seems that in the social sphere, I find myself…lacking.  Certainly so, compared to a successful young woman such as yourself, Miss Jones.”

            He let a sly smile slip slowly onto his lips as he studied Ivan’s figure.  “Quite the compliment,” he said, echoing his words to the ambassador from earlier that evening, “What is it you do Mr. Carmichael?”

            “I work in, ah, _foreign affairs_ ,” he practically purred, and Alfred barely managed to bite back a belly-deep laugh.  _Foreign affairs indeed_ , he thought, somewhat hysterically.

            _Poor George_ , he thought for a moment, who was watching them with a mix of bewilderment, shrewd curiosity, and the beaming excitement of a man who’s just watched two of his friends become friends and possibly more.  It seemed the beaming excitement was winning over the curiosity – though Alfred was sure it was only temporary, the SIS did tend to choose their employees fairly well (if you ignored the scandal from earlier in the decade, at least).

            “You’re getting along quite swimmingly!” he chirped, beaming still as the summer sun.  Alfred offered a demure nod with an artful smile twisting his lips, watching Ivan’s lazy smirk of assent from the corner of his eyes.

            “It seems so, Mr. Burgess,” he agreed, violet eyes tracing the sly slant of his lover’s posture and mirroring eyes, “I must thank you for the introduction.”

            George waved off the gratitude with a grin, “Ah, but you haven’t had reason to thank me yet, my friend!  You’ve yet to become enamored with Miss Jones’s exemplary dancing, like every other poor fellow in the hall.  I shall leave you two to your conversation, my friend, but only if you and the dear Miss Jones take a whirl out on the ballroom floor!  I dare say you’ve been getting along well enough for it.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Burgess –,”

            “George, please, Miss,”

            “George, then,” Alfred smiled coyly to the sweet, shrewd man in front of him, “Thank you verily.  Though I must say, I’m sure Mr. Carmichael – having worked in _foreign affairs_ – must be well acquainted with dancers of my aptitude.”  He almost smirked at the snort Ivan tried to play off as a cough.

            “Oh, but certainly, none with your charm and your wit, my dear!” George objected vigorously, a frown curling on his lips even as his eyes sparkled.

            A chiming laugh echoed around them as Alfred smiled, “You flatter me so, dear George!”

            “Ah, but it’s quite deserved, dear Miss Jones,” he smiles back.

            “Emily, then,” he insisted, smirking at the wide-eyed look he was given for a split second before George suppressed it in favor of his excitement, “if you must be George, then I shall be Emily, and I’ll hear nothing against it, you hear?”

            George grinned, cheered and flattered, “Dear Emily, then, of course!”

            Alfred nodded, satisfied, and smiled, “I do hope you enjoy the rest of the gala, then George.  Madame Ambassador mentioned to me that one of her favorite caterers was attending the event, and Madame is quite hard to please.  Take care!”

            “And you as well, dear!” George then turned his russet eyes on Ivan, warm still but with a degree of warning Alfred hadn’t seen in them, “Do take care of her old chap.  I should hope you’ll both tell me how the dance went at a later date?”

            Ivan inclined his head, just the slightest bit, “Of course, my friend,” he said, “do have a lovely evening.”

            Mere seconds later, George had vanished into the whirl of the gala, and Alfred and Ivan were left alone.

            The upbeat thrum of music swirled in the air around them before they could break the silence that’d fallen, and Ivan turned to him, one brow raised in inquiry.  “Care to dance, darling?”

            “Not even going to wine and dine me before asking a girl to dance?” he asked, mockingly shocked, “For shame, sir!”

            Ivan snickered, twining their hands together as he drew Alfred into an upbeat dance, “I’ve wined and dined and danced you through all stages of our _relationship_ ,” he purred, “surely a dance won’t demand much more than _that_ when we’ve been _much_ more intimate elsewhere?”

            Alfred scoffed as they whirled passed the musicians, not letting the insinuation provoke a flush on his cheeks for all to see and gawk at, “Surely it’ll leave a better impression to dine before we dance?”

            But Ivan only smirked, and Alfred’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forwards, just inches from indecently close, and his lips curled, “You’ve never been able to resist commenting before, why hold your tongue now?”

            Ivan tightened his grip on his waist, caressing the weave of their fingers with his thumb as he smirked.  And as if in answer, the beat of an upbeat song echoed through the ballroom.

_"Have you met Miss Jones?”_

_Someone said as we shook hands_

            The first of the lyrics had just barely wound their way to their ears when Alfred forced back a flush and a dangerous smile. Instead, the corner of his lips quirked, and he raised a brow at his companion.  Ivan smirked at him, tugging him closer as they swept around the dance floor, and carefully avoiding letting Alfred catch sight of George waving excitedly at them from near the musicians.  Alfred huffed a laugh at that smug expression, “Why _Mr. Carmichael_ , what a fiend you are!”

            Ivan chuckled at that, sweeping him into a twirl before tugging him back close, murmuring so softly only Alfred could hear, “Only ever for you, my dear.”

            Alfred tossed his head back and laughed, the song of summer sweet birds and bountiful things, and curled his fingers tighter around his lover’s shoulder.  “As long as my father never knows the details.”

            And then Alfred was laughing again, the solstice-bright sound echoing through all corners of the hall.  Ivan, a stark sickly pale at the very thought of the Empire _ever_ learning what kind of mischief they’d committed together, shook the dark thoughts away and smiled wryly at the joyful face of his beloved.  It was rare that he could behold such a sight when they lay at opposite ends of a world-ending conflict, so he treasured it endlessly.  Treasured that Alfred loved him so much to go against the word of his government, the will of his people, and the unspoken command of his father.  And yet, it was fair was it not; an equivalent exchange?  He had done much the same.

            But, he supposed, it mattered not in the end where their people dragged them.  Alfred may stand across him in the meeting room, pistol cocked and missiles locked on his heart so far away, but as long as his summer sweet love carried an ounce of love for him, their missiles wouldn’t fire.

            Let the world call for them to damn each other.  It mattered not.  They would be together until they died.

 

“ _And all at once I lost my breath,_

_And all at once was scared to death_

_And all at once I owned the earth and sky_

_And now I've met Miss Jones_

_And we'll keep on meeting till we die_

_Miss Jones and I_

_Miss Jones and I_

_Miss Jones and I_ ”

 

 


End file.
